The View From Scranton

Here is Not Elsewhere

It took a minute. Two. Then it took a minute more. And still I wasn't out of the House. Like anything you don't wanna do, it takes time. Sometimes less. Sometimes more. Mostly more. Like leaving. I gotta skirt the skels, sidestep the cigarettes, click through and back and through two locked doors, stand at attention, give my destination, sign my name. Same procedure every time, morning, noon and night.

I mean, eve. There are no nights. No nights I see anyway. Back in at 9, and that's something. It began at 7. Got bumped to 8. Now I'm a Niner. With a five hour weekend window to work with.

But even the evenings feel different. My first night out past 7, I saw a new sky, tasted a new air. My last past 7 was in a yard the size of a carport. No sky to see, no air to speak of. Tasted like purgatory and defeat, 'cause it was. Now is now. You'd think an hour here or there wouldn't mean much. That thought would be wrong. An hour is a whole new world.

Now that I've got till 9 to play with I'm almost giddy. Not that I've made it out that late yet. By the time I get back from slogging the day way I've such a yen to do something, say something, I split well before 6. Since I only have three hours of my so-called own, that puts me back before curfew. If I wasn't so itchy I'd wait a half hour longer. But itchy I am. And only some electronic conveyance can scratch it.

So I hit the library. A wonderful place. 19th century grandeur and 21st century technology. I use every permitted hour I can to be here. Every permittable day. It's the next best thing to swinging elsewhere. And I do so dream of elsewhere.

posted by John Hood. @ 9:43 PM